


What God Hath Wrought (We Shall Unmake)

by Beguile



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Antlers, Blasphemy, Hack Philosophy, Herecy, M/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew and Hannibal are Children of the Sun, and they are coming back together in a perfect whole.  HanniBrown.  Slash.  One-shot.  Written as a prompt fill for the Hannibal ACCA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What God Hath Wrought (We Shall Unmake)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drinkbloodlikewine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/gifts).



> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of the Dino de Laurentiis Company and its related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Many thanks to the donor, Megan, whose commission became the basis for this fic. I hope that I have done your prompt justice. I have been suffering from writer’s block for a while now, so it’s nice to be working again.  
> This marks my first foray into slash fiction. I hope it’s not awful.

 

* * *

 

         Matthew’s dreams are rarely so explicit, but reality so rarely gives his subconscious decent material.  Dr. Lecter arrives at Baltimore the same day he starts work.  Matthew recognizes his face from images on TattleCrime.com.  The man who Will Graham blames for his incarceration is a well-tailored monster.  He has woven his dark intentions into every stitch on his suits, every pore on his face.  Very well, Matthew decides, and discards his own small measures of disguise.  The lisp vanishes from his voice when he addresses the doctor.  After work, he strips down to nothing and stands in front of a mirror in the staff washroom, running his fingers over the two halves of a whole marked on either side of his abdomen.  Hack philosopher that he is, Matthew still buys into the notion that once upon a time, a person was two, and it was only God’s vanity that cut them apart.

          He and Hannibal are Children of the Sun, and they are slowly coming back together in a perfect whole. 

          Matthew’s imagination, limited as it may be, produces a facsimile of one of the basement cells in Baltimore.  There is only darkness beyond the bars, as if there is nothing beyond his tiny confines.  Hannibal Lecter stands before a wall of antlers.  They are alone together in subterfuge and need not rise until they, devils that they are, decide to give the world its due.

          Lecter’s neck is arched at such an angle that all his features are aquiline.  The antlers dotting the wall behind him jut into Matthew’s skin despite their distance.  “How many people have you killed?”  
  
          “You mean besides the bailiff?”

          “I mean including the bailiff,” Lecter doesn’t make the mistake of thinking he killed the judge.  Matthew can’t help but feel slightly ashamed: the judge’s murder is poetry in motion.

          He focuses on his own point of pride.  Getting the bailiff on that stag’s head was a warrior’s feat.  “Seven,” Matthew admits, mouth poised in a half-smirk.  His murders are such profound expressions of honesty.  The only time he hasn’t felt the need to hide is when he’s killing.  “Is that more or less than what you expected?”  
  
          “What makes you think I had expectations?”

          “Maybe expectation is the wrong word,” Matthew winces.  He wants this to be real so badly that it hurts, wants to wake up and find that the world has ended leaving just the two of them behind.  He wants to return to a primal wilderness with Hannibal Lecter, to assert themselves as antiquated but superior stages in the evolutionary ladder.  “You are a celebrated psychiatrist.  You profile killers for the FBI.  You must have some impression of me based on how I treated the bailiff.”  
  
          “You were copying Will Graham.”  
  
          “I was inspired by Will Graham.  I’m inspired by a lot of things.”

          “What inspires you?”

          “History was my favourite subject in school,” Matthew has to pace.  Lecter’s stare is filling him with nervous energy.  “I started with Iroquois warriors.  Not the crap they teach you in public school: the real stuff.  Turns out they did cannibalize their enemies, but they did it out of respect.  Same reason they tortured them.  Native warriors wanted to honour their enemies by watching them endure agony.

          “I lured a boy into the forest.  He was a classmate of mine from school.  I had a small fort where I tied him up.  I beat him, I tried chewing off his fingers but,” Matthew laughs, “but I was eleven, and the history books don’t tell you how difficult that is.  The Iroquois must have sharpened their teeth or something.”

          Lecter’s eyes are shadowed into black holes.  “Who else inspires you?”  
          “The Greeks.”

          “Who did you kill in their name?”

          “A bum.  I was thirteen.  He mugged me, so I tracked him down and challenged him.  I beat him to death with shrapnel gloves like the original boxers.” 

          “The Greeks believed inspiration was only the first step in an education.”  
  
          Matthew nods.  They have entered into the same orbit around a central point in the cell, sharks circling a meal.  The analogy fits well.  Much as Matthew aspires to be a hawk, he has always felt like a submarine or subterranean creature.  He makes a living under the radar, underfoot, and out of suspicion’s way.  Lecter seems adept at evolving to different environments.  He grows gills in water, holds his breath underground, or spreads his wings when he needs to fly.  What Matthew wouldn’t give for just an ounce of his adaptability. 

          “Inspiration doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t result in an education,” Matthew snarls good-naturedly. 

          Lecter’s head tilts towards the opposite shoulder.  Playtime’s over.  “What have you learned from me?”  
  
          Matthew still wants to play, “I’ve learned to never trust a psychiatrist.”  
  
          “Pity,” though Lecter’s tone doesn’t communicate that.  “I imagine I could provide quite an education for you.”   
  
          The good doctor’s gotten closer.  Either that or the cell’s gotten smaller.  Both are possible: Matthew is well aware that this isn’t reality proper.  “We’re not the same species,” He muses out loud. 

          “No,” Lecter agrees, “Not yet.  You believe murder is the culmination of understanding.”

          “Isn’t it?”  
  
          “Murder is the key to understanding.  To murder is to vivisect the human condition.”   
  
          “Iroquois warriors knew death was inevitable, no matter how careful they were, but they didn’t know when their enemies would start screaming,” Matthew counters.  “It was good fortune for their enemies to scream before the dawn.  I’ve gotten used to the anticipation, the not-knowing, the uncertainty.  I never know how strong my enemies are.”

          “The Greeks formed apprenticeships based on not knowing,” Lecter is even closer.  Matthew can feel the heat.  He’s burning too, in his own way, the sparks of his admittedly limited imagination catching flame from finding his missing piece. 

          He itches his tattoos, the ones currently smoldering to char on his waist. 

          Lecter stares at his wrists.  His eyes are visible now, and the irises look like old blood.  “Are you looking for a mentor, Matthew, or a friend?”

          Matthew has no idea.  The idea of having an equal is appealing, but Lecter’s monstrosity is refined in a way for which his imagination can’t account.  “I want to come into your world, Dr. Lecter.  Or maybe I want you to come into mine.”

          “Your premise is too limiting,” Lecter’s hands come to rest on his shoulders.  “Let’s create our own world, Matthew.”

          He whips Matthew around to face the antler wall.  There’s a mirror there, full length, and the reflection hasn’t changed much from earlier in the staff washroom.  Matthew is still naked.  His tattoos are still fixed on either side of his waist.  Lecter’s face looms over his shoulder, eyes like black coals, but not in judgment.  He isn’t seeing Matthew; he has the distant look on his face of a man in his imagination.  He can see what Matthew is becoming.

          One shove and Matthew’s face is against the mirror.  The antlers crowd around him, pressing against his skin from without as his bones press from within.  Lecter’s breath is fire along the ridges of his spine.  Matthew can feel it peeling away from his vertebrae, like he’s a candle and it’s the wick.  His breath comes in staccato bursts. 

          Lecter shoves him into the mirror; pain bolts through Matthew’s groin, but his erection only grows harder.  He wants this.  “Tell me how you adapted,” he begs.   
          “I’ll show you,” Lecter wraps his hand over the back of Matthew’s head and forces his eyes to the mirror.  “Mentor first, Matthew, then friend.”  His next words are breathed straight into Matthew’s ear, “Like the Greeks.”

          The first thrust splits Matthew straight up the middle.  His brain lights up like the Fourth of July.  Lecter holds him there, pinned to the wall, so the two new pieces of Matthew can fall apart from one another.  The only thing more terrifying than being torn from one’s other half is being torn apart again, to go from two eyes to one. 

          Except that he doesn’t.  Lecter’s arms the two halves of his body together in exquisite agony. 

          “Matthew.”

          Matthew struggles against the ripping between his hips spiking up into his diaphragm.  He has to hold his breath in order to regain his senses.  It hurts.  His whole body hurts.  From the fire on his spine to the tearing from behind: Matthew hurts.  He blinks back tears, because no amount of this-is-only-a-dream seems to be helping. 

          “Matthew,” Lecter shakes him.  “Matthew, look at me.”  
  
          The bloody, shadowed stare penetrates the white light filling Matthew’s vision.  Gradually, the mirror becomes visible, with Lecter’s face – calm, collected, _smirking_ – still over his shoulder.  The good doctor waits for Matthew’s pain dull to a throb, one that mimics the ache he felt earlier in his chest.  He still feels too large for the room and too small for his skin; is still too hard even though pain should be making him soft.  Lecter makes him an equivocator, and Matthew is neither happy nor sad because he’s stuck between evolutionary stages and there’s no going back. 

          Lecter releases Matthew’s hands so he can reach a restraining arm around the younger man’s waist.  He drags his other hand over Matthew’s inner thigh, over his lower back, before rising to his neck.  

          “Are you ready to begin?”  
  
          Matthew wants to know what the hell kind of question that is: Lecter is already inside him, already deep enough that Matthew’s heart is ticking against the tip of the doctor’s dick.  Matthew can’t form words though.  His brain’s too busy picking apart all the different sensations rolling through him.  The antler tips trickle through his eyelashes, his ribs are expanding even if he’s not breathing well, and the splitting, the ripping, the tearing…that’s slowly slipping away.  Replaced by something that makes his skin itch on the inside all over.

          Lecter thrusts once and lightly.  The shift inside Matthew is cold first, then hot, and neither of them should be pleasant but they are.  They are, they are, they are.  He buries his face against the glass and lets out a moan he’s been holding since chewing on his classmate’s fingers at age eleven.  God left a wound when he cut the Children of the Sun, Moon, and Earth in twain.  Lecter found it tonight, the long gash hidden inside that leads straight to Matthew’s heart.  He’s putting them back together. 

          Matthew finds his voice and fits his tongue firmly in cheek.  “Was this…the route…you took into…” he gasps and slams a fist against the mirror.  Lecter’s thrust was harder than the first.  Matthew almost can’t finish.  Almost.  “…into Will Graham’s head?”

          Lecter digs a fist into Matthew’s sternum.  He bucks Matthew’s next breath from his lungs and bucks again to keep him from breathing in too quickly.  “I’m not aiming for your brain, _Matthew_.”

           Matthew’s face is shoved into the mirror on the next thrust.  The chill of the glass cuts through the heat.  He fumbles, fingers slipping from sweat through the forest of antlers.  The pain, he notices dumbly, returns only when Lecter stops moving now.  “Pick up the pace.  Oh, Jesus…” his mouth has gone dry from heavy breathing.  “Speed up, speed up, speed up!”

          “Look at me.”  
  
          “I can’t.”

          Lecter drops uses his next thrust to crush Matthew between his chest and the wall.  The force of the blows knocks the wind clean out of Matthew.  His eyes fly open.  Pain and pleasure operate in perfect tandem throughout his body.  There’s fire in his head, fire in his heart, and a growing pressure in his groin that demands, needs, wants.  Matthew blinks through tears and sweat to find Lecter’s black eyes staring back in the mirror.  Only then does the good doctor start moving again, and it’s at an agonizingly slow pace.  Slow enough that Matthew can take it all in: the hurt, the gaze, the rolling waves of pressure and release.  He weaves one arm through the antlers and snakes another down to his own member, if for no other reason than to keep it from chafing against the stone wall.

          Dream logic kicks him to the curb.  Lecter’s hand is already there, tight and insistent.  Matthew grinds into the grip, throwing his useless hand into the antlers too.  “YES,” the fireworks are starting up again.  “Yes, yes, yes…”

          He blinks back the light, wanting to hold this moment, this suspension between worlds, and lucky for him, Matthew sees smoke curling up from his back.  Fear uncoils like a snake in his belly.  “What the hell?” for the second time, he tries to pull himself away.  Bad idea.  Lecter’s got a solid hold on all his important parts, including his brain, which is so worked up over how good this feels that fear just excites Matthew even more.  He drives himself deeper into Lecter’s hand before pushing his butt harder against Lecter’s pelvis.  The smoking intensifies.  Matthew can smell burning meat.  “I’m on fire,” his eyes roll back in his skull. 

          “You’re being reborn,” Lecter tells him.  Fingers trace the edges of his spine: impossible fingers.  Fingers Lecter can’t possibly have given how many hands are currently caressing Matthew’s body – though, admittedly, his grasp on math, anatomy, and sensation is pretty weak right now.  He’s welcoming the impromptu massage though until the fingers drive themselves into his skin and the smoke is accompanied by the sounds of ripping.

          Matthew’s scream is stolen from him, whisked away in a flood of smoke and ash just seconds before he’s split open.  A pair of shadows rise from the gaping wounds on Matthew’s back.  Wings.  Hawk’s wings.  Icarus wings.  A perfect match to the pair growing out of Lecter. 

          Lecter’s smirk greets him, along with his dark eyes, through the part in his wings.  Matthew exhales, shuddering.  He gazes down to his waist, to the two halves made whole just beneath his rib cage.

          Matthew slams a hand in triumph against the mirror.  He makes a fist, and then proudly gives God the finger. 

          “That’s very rude, Matthew,” Lecter warns him, slowing his pace again. 

          Matthew hides his hand, smirking wildly.  “Sorry,” he apologizes and is surprised to discover that he means it.

          Lecter hums, satisfied, and finishes him off. 

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!


End file.
